


the sweetest hell I've had

by firstlovelatespring



Category: House M.D.
Genre: Episode: s03e07 Son Of Coma Guy, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-11
Updated: 2018-04-11
Packaged: 2019-04-21 10:17:21
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 473
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14282769
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/firstlovelatespring/pseuds/firstlovelatespring
Summary: Nothing's ever as simple as you think it is.





	the sweetest hell I've had

**Author's Note:**

> dialogue is lifted directly from the scene; only the description is mine!
> 
> i literally can't believe i wrote this. but please validate me for posting it

“This factory of yours,” House says. “What did you make?” It’s goddamn frustrating that vegetative state guy cares more about a hoagie than his own son, but at least they have this cozy road trip time to gab. But still, apparently, vegetative state guy hasn’t forgotten their agreement: tit for tat. “So, ask me a question,” House concedes.

“I’m thinking.”

House takes a vicodin, then rattles the pill bottle. “Only six left, by the way,” he snipes toward the back seat.

“So sign my name. You don’t need a doctor, you need a pen,” Wilson says.

“What is up with you two?” vegetative state guy says, almost turning away from the road. Maybe what House said about enhanced reflexes was a little generous.

“Wilson lied to the bulls to keep me out of the big house.”

House can almost feel Wilson’s outrage. “Are you out of your mind?”

“Well, who’s he gonna tell? By tomorrow night he’s gonna be a mindless stalk of celery. Since I answered that one, by the way, my turn. What did you make in your factory?”

“Luxury boats,” vegetative state guy answers. Then, “Have you ever been in love?”

“Wow! Going right for the closets with the embarrassing stuff. Good move,” House says, not quite uncomfortable, not yet. It’s safe to talk about Stacy, if a little bittersweet. “Yes. Describe the boats.”

“Thirty-five to sixty-five foot hulls, twin engines, parquet floors in the gallery, staterooms with queen beds.” Boring, diagnostically irrelevant. “How’d you meet?”

“She shot me.” It’s probably a good meeting story, if you care about that sort of thing. “These boats, I assume you used mildew-resistant paint on the hulls?”

“Naturally. Shot you?”

“Paintball. Doctors versus lawyers.” He’s getting somewhere, now. “Did you ever take your son to the factory?”

“Sure. He used to run all over the place, but it was perfectly safe,” vegetative state guy says, as if that’s remotely true. “Ever love anybody else?”

That question, well. It’s a lot less safe. And maybe a lot less easy to answer. Everything was a lot more simple before his leg. Before “miserable” became a major personality trait. Because, what is love, really? Is it marriage? Or is it lending someone fifteen thousand dollars bail, your car? Just putting up with all of another person’s shit, no matter what happens? Maybe it’s just force of habit that keeps Wilson from sitting with another doctor at lunch, but maybe it’s something else. Isn’t love choosing someone else, over and over again?

“No more questions,” House says. “I got my answer.”

They drive in silence. House can practically hear Wilson fuming from the back seat, but he’s here. House lied to him, stole his prescription pad, maybe put him in legal jeopardy, but Wilson is here, in the backseat of his own car. He has his answer.


End file.
